Can You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse? Read Free Page B

to your right, underneath the Civic.
    Feet scramble past you. An elderly woman falls. She shuts her eyes. You reach out, try to help her, but there’s nothing you can do. She’s trampled. A hundred feet run over her. A heavy boot lands on the back of her head, pushing her face into the cement. Blood seeps from her nose. A crack as a huge man steps on her ankle, snapping it. A few horrific minutes later and the stampeding crowd has thinned. The woman is dead.
    You roll out from the other side of the car, closer to the middle of the bridge. A large gap, maybe ten feet wide, runs down the center of the bridge, separating inbound and outbound traffic. Steel girders connect the two sides.
    Across the gap a police officer is standing in the middle of acrowd firing into the air. His cruiser sits behind him, door open. Possible safety, you think. The cruiser is bulletproof. Probably has a shotgun inside. A radio!
    You peer down the gap at the bridge’s lower deck. No people. No army. Just the dead. The monsters have completely taken it over.
    You climb up on the closest girder, the metal warm against your palms. You begin to inch your way across. The moans of the dead rise up.
    There’s a huge blast as the car ahead of you explodes. Instinctively, you reel back, trying to shield yourself. In the process you lose your balance. Your foot slips off the girder. Then your leg. Suddenly you’re clinging to the edge, hanging on for dear life.
    Don’t look down. Don’t look down. Don’t look down.
    You look down.
    Fucking idiot. Why’d you look down?
    Gnarled hands reach up—a moaning throng of the dead, begging for you.
    You struggle to pull yourself up. You kick your feet—but there’s just air.
    Their moans get louder as the beasts sense your impending fall.
    You block out everything—the angry sound of gunfire, the deathly moans, the agonizing screams. You concentrate only on making it back up. Feel your muscles tighten. Your hands grip the steel. Finally, using everything you have, you pull yourself back up onto the girder.
    You stare ahead. Not going to fall again. Not going to die. You move forward—slowly, steadily.
    Finally, you make it to the other side. You pass the burning car and beeline it for the cruiser. Hop the hood of a taxi, slide off like Starsky. Jump across the next car.
    You dive into the cruiser and slam the door shut behind you. It’s a mess inside. Dunkin’ Donuts coffee cups on the floor.Empty food bags—KFC, McDonald’s, more Dunkin’ Donuts. A pack of True cigarettes nestled between the dashboard and the front window.
    W HAP W HAP W HAP !!!
    The bulletproof glass spiderwebs. Your heart leaps up your throat as you realize the cop is shooting at you.
    The officer frowns, frustrated.
    You wave—mouthing “What the fuck?” You’re not locking him out. He can get in the car, too. You’re just looking for cover.
    He pushes a citizen aside and marches toward the car.
    What the fuck is this nut job doing?
    He fires twice more. You lunge across the car and lock the door. The cop shakes his head and pulls the keys from his belt. Waves them at you and smiles.
    Then, out of nowhere, three of the beasts tackle him. He’s gone—just like that.
    More zombies run past, headed toward Brooklyn. They pay no attention to you. Up ahead, you can see the Army stepping back.
    Then the artillery starts. The big guns. Tanks? You’re not sure. Something loud as fuck. Ahead of you a truck explodes. A giant, fiery blast. Then another. Bodies fly through the air. A man is launched wildly off the side of the bridge.
    You watch, eyes wide, as the bridge lights up like the Fourth of July.
    If you want to get out of the car and run, click here .
    If you’d rather hang tight and pray the firing subsides, click here .

WHERE THE HEART IS
    Home, you think. That’s the best bet—has to be. Familiar. Safe. Secure.
    You alternate